


Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood

by sonhoedesrazao



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Piningjolras, a few of my favorite things, drunkjolras, oblivious!grantaire for a change, this is silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:49:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonhoedesrazao/pseuds/sonhoedesrazao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire takes it upon himself to help Enjolras get laid. Everyone questions this move, particularly Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood

He doesn’t ask until the third time. The first it's a black eye, the second a missing tooth, and the third sees Bahorel enter the gym with stitches on his forehead.

“Not to question your life choices,” Grantaire says as they prepare for a match, “but who’s been kicking your ass? Is it a kinky thing?”

“It’s a fighting thing,” says Bahorel undisturbed. “You know the protest this week? It got kind of rowdy.” There’s a glint in his eyes as he says it.

They’re not exactly best friends, but Grantaire likes Bahorel. He’s easygoing and fun and never questions it when Grantaire is hungover. Grantaire never took him for the type who gets out on a Saturday to protest on behalf of queer youth.

“What were you _doing_ there?”

“I’m part of the group who organized it, actually,” Bahorel says.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Wonders never cease.”

“I go mostly for my friends. Most of them can’t throw a punch to save their lives, especially the guys, but they’re very passionate about their causes.”

“I’m sure they are. So, shall we?”

*

It doesn’t come up until a couple of weeks later, when Bahorel says, after training, “Listen, you should come to one of our meetings.”

“Of your justice group? What makes you think that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t,” Bahorel smirks. “But I mentioned you and Enjolras wants to meet you now.”

“Enjolras. That’s your fearless leader?”

He gave the nickname himself, and was pleased to hear the week before that Bahorel had mentioned it, apparently annoying said leader when it caught on.

“He thinks no one can be that cynical.”

“Well, then,” Grantaire laughs, sudden and loud, startling the duo next to them. “Challenge accepted.”

*

The Friends of the ABCs—and he supposes someone who calls himself R can’t be picky about puns—meet at a café near the Place St. Michel. Grantaire knows it, but he’s never been to the secluded backroom that apparently belongs to Bahorel’s group. He arrives late, but has only to follow a loud, impassionated voice to find the right room.

He sticks his head in and spots Bahorel and a dozen other people, who are all looking at the same person. Grantaire’s eyes turn to the speaker, and he realizes, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he is looking at the infamous Enjolras.

Neither Enjolras nor the rest of his friends seem to notice him as he sneaks in and takes a seat at the back. Only Bahorel waves at him with a grin, and Grantaire nods curtly, regretting the decision to come. He’s tired after working all day and trying to paint something to no avail, and Enjolras is too loud and too vehement for his taste. He takes a sip of the drink he got downstairs and listens in silence—until he doesn’t.

His scoff cuts through Enjolras’s speech swiftly and deadly, and he finds himself faced with a pair of striking blue eyes, which are boring holes into his. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Bahorel is grinning and whispering something to a bald black man next to him.

“You must be Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt you. Please go back to how you’re ridding the world of discrimination.”

A couple of coughs and muffled whispers escape from some of the others, but Grantaire isn’t looking. He doesn’t want to see disgust or anger in Bahorel’s friends; Enjolras’s expression is more than enough, though the man—if Grantaire can call him that, as he barely looks old enough to be an undergrad—gives no outward sign of irritation other than standing straighter and stiffer.

“Bahorel mentioned you don’t believe in activism.”

“There’s nothing to believe in. Everyone’s free to waste their time as they think best.”

Enjolras bristles. “I hardly think helping people is a waste of my time.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Have you heard nothing I’ve been saying?”

“I’ve heard you talk about protests and awareness campaigns. Do you really think it makes a difference?”

Enjolras makes a choked-off sound, as if the question has astounded him to his very core. “Of course it makes a difference!”

“If you say so. Seriously, carry on, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“I can’t carry on when I know you’re there, being wrong!”

Grantaire gapes. “You must be the terror of the YouTube comment section.”

“What?”

“God, I bet you have a social justice blog.”

There is definitely some snickering around the room; a handsome, friendly-looking guy he has a feeling he’s seen in a party once is outright cackling.

“Well,” Enjolras says sharply, “what do you suggest we do instead?”

“Nothing,” he answers right away. “Any gesture is meaningless.”

This seems to bring Enjolras back to himself; the man scoffs and rolls his eyes. “That’s incredibly helpful, thank you, Grantaire. Maybe you’re content sitting back and letting prejudice and ignorance proliferate in our school, but I think awareness can do good.”

“I’m not a student,” Grantaire says.

“What?”

“I dropped out. So in fact I’m content with letting prejudice and ignorance proliferate in the _real_ world, not just your precious school. And, spoiler alert—it does. I’ve heard about your protests and actions, but I’m yet to see any difference in the way most people behave when you tell them you’re gay.”

But Enjolras latches on the wrong question. “Why did you drop out?” he asks, as if it’s a normal thing to pry into someone’s life when you’ve known them for two minutes.

That’s not even the worst part, though. The worst part is the look on his face, a sort of pitying, judgmental gaze that he is familiar with by now. He’s received it when he had to tell the few people in his life that he was quitting. Well, fuck this Enjolras; they’re not even friends for Grantaire to be on the receiving end of his disappointment.

“What, does that disqualify me to have an opinion? Only academics allows to chime in?”

“Of course not,” Enjolras says quickly. “Feuilly isn’t a student either.” He looks at a tall redhead who seems uncomfortable with being brought up.

“I’m not saying I disagree with the sentiment,” Grantaire intervenes before Enjolras can start again. “I’m all for civil rights and gay pride and the destruction of the patriarchy and the end of capitalism, which I suppose you also support? But you have to realize that the effect _you_ can have is minimal. You’re a college group. No offence.”

Enjolras seems to have taken offence, though, if the way he inhales sharply is anything to go by.

Grantaire just sighs, feeling terribly weary, and gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry, everyone—next round is on me, all right? Didn’t mean to undermine your meeting.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Enjolras says coldly, and picks up the discussion where he’d left off.

*

“He’s an asshole,” is Grantaire’s assessment to Bahorel later that night, when the official meeting is over and he’s sharing a table, and several drinks, with his sparring partner and two other guys.

“I knew you’d think so.” Bahorel doesn’t seem upset or surprised. “Have another beer. This is Bossuet, and that’s Joly. Guys, tell R about your scandalous love life.”

“I’m listening,” he laughs.

Later Bahorel introduces Feuilly as well, and the others come to say hi—with one notable exception. He can’t bring himself to be disappointed. Enjolras sits with a couple of his friends (he forgets their names, but both start with C) and pointedly doesn’t look at him, and that’s fine with Grantaire.

“Listen,” a drunken Joly slurs earnestly at his ear a couple of hours later, “you _have_ to come back next week.”

Grantaire snickers. “I don’t think so.”

Why would he put himself through _that_ again?

*

He’s back next week.

It’s all their fault. He gets roped by Joly and Bossuet to meet their girlfriend, Musichetta, the next day, and that somehow leads to having a long talk with Jehan about art—the poet is delighted to know he draws, though he insists it’s nothing to write home about—and for whatever reason the day after that finds him and Courfeyrac at the movies. He gets to know Éponine, and they bond over a pessimistic (“realistic,” he says) outlook on life, and he ends up listening to Marius’s entire life story and giving advice on how to deal with estranged family members (though he’s probably the least apt person to give anyone advice in the world). Cosette asks him about his life, and she’s so sweet he ends up telling her almost all she wants to know; she then tells him to drink less and eat more, to which he just nods.

It happens so quickly and naturally he doesn’t even notice what’s going on until he’s watching his second meeting, realizing he’s in a room full of friends.

Mostly full of friends, that is. Meetings are the only time he sees Enjolras, and though he decides to shut up not to upset the others, it’s hard when Enjolras starts actually asking his opinion. Grantaire isn’t going to _lie_ , so their conversations quickly derail into arguments. His lack of engagement in them makes Enjolras even angrier. Grantaire quickly judges he is one of those people who just don’t understand how someone might not be interested in doing something to improve society—or themselves. And yet he keeps turning to Grantaire, as if he’s trying to bait him into caring.

One meeting, Enjolras brings up dropout rates due to tuition. There’s a moment of silence, and Grantaire raises his eyes from his drink to find Enjolras looking at him expectantly.

“What, I’m the resident expert? I didn’t drop out because I had no money.” His parents would’ve supported him, even if that’s the only aspect in his life in which they would. It was more than money, though, a mix of undiagnosed mental issues alongside a probable drinking problem that made it very hard to get up in the morning and go to class. Hell, he didn’t even get a job until he was a week away from being evicted.

“Then why did you?” Enjolras asks again. “Jehan says you’re good.”

It takes him a second to realize Jehan has been babbling about his art, of which Grantaire allowed him a glimpse. The poet looks properly chagrined.

“Enjolras, despite what you may think, I don’t actually have to explain myself to you.”

“It’s just,” Enjolras is still talking, seeming a little abashed, “it seems you have—”

“I swear to god, your next words better not be _potential_ or _wasted_ ,” Grantaire growls.

Enjolras’s mouth turns into a thin line. “Fine,” he says, and resumes the meeting, and that is that.

*

A couple of weeks later, Bossuet tells him Enjolras has apparently been ranting about him in private, a fact he’s come to know via Courfeyrac, who heard it from Combeferre.

“I’m flattered. I never would’ve guessed he’d waste time with the likes of me.”

“He’s not a bad person,” Bossuet says gently as he, Joly and Grantaire peruse a sex shop in search of a birthday present for their girlfriend. Apparently she is not the jewelry-and-flower type, and Grantaire told them he knew just the place.

“Never said he was,” he says now.

“He’s genuinely baffled by you,” Joly chimes in, laughing. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so off his game.”

Grantaire scoffs. “He’s just not used to having opposition.”

“Hm,” Bossuet mutters. “Maybe. What do you really think of him?”

He peers at the two of them, who are badly conceiving their avidness. “What kind of question is that? How about this?” He picks up a pinwheel.

Joly flinches. “How about we don’t give her any pointy things?” he suggests, putting it back, then insists, “Come on, we’re just curious.”

What does he think of Enjolras? The image that comes to his mind is of someone with more energy and anger than a body should be able to contain; someone who thinks he’s far wiser than he actually is. Enjolras is impassionated, that’s a given, but what’s the point of all his passion? His hopes are foolish, and Grantaire has no doubt he’ll crash hard one of these days, maybe even become a cynic the sort of which he despises. Yet he can’t help thinking it’ll be a shame to see those eyes go dull.

Because Enjolras is also, and there’s no way around it, really fucking attractive. Grantaire is not denying it, because he has _eyes_ and that would be stupid. He’s not even what Grantaire would usually go for, with his soft golden curls and sharp jawline and high cheekbones, but then again, some people defy the notion of types. Of course, that doesn’t make Enjolras any less of a dick, with his preaching and optimism and condescending hints of how Grantaire could _be_ _more_ , if only he tried.

Who says he wants to be more? Maybe he wants to stay just where he is.

“It’s not a trick question,” Bossuet appears beside him again.

He shakes his head. “Enjolras is an overexcited puppy gnawing on the bone of his own righteousness,” is how he summarizes this train of thought. “Come on, let’s see some whips.”

*

Three days later, he stumbles into none other than the fearless leader himself in the library of his former university. Enjolras is hunched over his laptop, typing furiously. Grantaire isn’t sure why his feet take him there, but the next thing he knows he’s close enough to observe Enjolras’s long, delicate eyelashes as he reads something on the screen.

He considers turning back when Enjolras notices him, with a double take. “What are you doing here?”

It’s truly a wonder how the man is incapable of civility.

“It’s a public library, as far as I know.”

“I mean—you’re not a—”

“And therefore I can’t enjoy this repository of knowledge? Enjolras, I’m disappointed. Check your student privilege.”

Enjolras grimaces. “I’m working.”

“I can see that,” Grantaire says, taking the seat opposite him. The library is not full, and there is only one other girl at their table, who’s sitting a few chairs to the right. “Carry on.”

Enjolras studies him for a moment, then lowers his eyes to the laptop. It doesn’t take him thirty seconds to look up again, realizing Grantaire isn’t _doing_ anything.

“Are you just going to _sit there_?”

Grantaire smirks. “I could leave, if you want. That is, if you don’t mind infringing on my liberties?”

Enjolras’s look could curdle milk.

“What are you doing?” he asks, before Enjolras can start typing again.

Enjolras peers at him cautiously, apparently struggling with his answer. Then he says, “I’m making a post,” as if bracing for war.

“I knew it! You have a blog.”

“What if I do?”

“Give me the address.”

“No,” Enjolras replies right away, and Grantaire can’t help but laugh.

“Why not?”

“Because we both know you’ll just read it to oppose my ideas later, or reblog my posts with some cynical comment.” Enjolras is still whispering, but at some points his voice threatens to rise beyond what is acceptable for their current location.

“For someone who wants to go into politics, you don’t have the best attitude towards opposition. You need to learn how to deal with people like me.”

“Who says I want to go into politics?” Enjolras counters. “Anyway, opposition implies someone cares about what they’re saying. You just argue for the sake of arguing.”

He ignores the jab. “What are you writing about?”

Enjolras sighs. Grantaire can see him internally debating whether it’s worth answering and whether doing so will improve the chances Grantaire will leave. Grantaire isn’t sure why he’s _not_ leaving, except riling up Enjolras is sort of fun.

“There’s this discussion going on about body image and standards of beauty. I’m just pointing out that they’re constructions that have no meaning and are meant solely to make people feel bad about themselves so they’ll sign up to what the media and the market are selling, and that, therefore, we need to overcome these ridiculous—what?”

Grantaire blinks. Is this guy for serious?

He looks around them. There are perhaps thirty people in the library, and none of them are aware of how absurd Enjolras is.

“That’s easy for _you_ to say,” he points out.

Enjolras sits back. “What does _that_ mean?”

“It _means_ that when you look like _that_ , you don’t exactly have to worry about standards of beauty. Telling people to overcome them is therefore total bullshit.”

Enjolras’s gaze turns hard. “Look like what?” he asks tersely.

“You know what.”

But Enjolras has crossed his arms and is looking at him as if Grantaire is being particularly offensive. He wonders why the fuck he even came here; why he thought talking with Enjolras would be a good thing to do with his day.

“Hot,” he announces, quite loudly, in the library. “You’re really hot.”

A dozen people turn their heads, including the girl they’re sharing the table with, and he waves mindlessly at their angry faces. Then he looks at Enjolras, bracing himself for the blowout.

Except Enjolras is not snapping at him, just staring and turning a deep shade of red. Maybe it’s a trick of the light? No, Enjolras is looking down, one of his hands closed in a fist over the table. He never thought Enjolras could _blush_.

“What, you didn’t know?” he asks, because the silence is a little awkward.

“Beauty is subjective,” Enjolras says.

“There’s nothing subjective about you,” Grantaire drawls. “Trust me.”

It’s a new sort of pleasure, watching Enjolras get more and more uncomfortable under his gaze. He should’ve known that Enjolras, who never looks at a woman or a man with any intention, who never responds to flirting and seems to shut himself off from any threat of romantic entanglements—and, from what he hears, sexual—would be totally unaware of what he looks like.

“Has nobody ever told you?”

“I’ve been told I—” Enjolras halts mid-sentence.

“What?” he prompts. He finds he actually wants to know how someone arrives at twenty-something unaware that he is a standard of beauty personified.

“Are we really discussing how I look?”

And _there’s_ the Enjolras he knows.

“Seems like it. Spill, what did people say about you?”

“That I looked like a girl, mostly,” Enjolras says off-handedly, but he’s not looking Grantaire straight in the eye. “I used to have longer hair, too, and I was thinner. Well.”

“What’s wrong with looking feminine?”

“Nothing, of course,” Enjolras says defensively.

“But it bothered you.”

“No, it didn’t bother me, it didn’t affect me. People wouldn’t take me seriously, but—it doesn’t matter. I don’t think about my looks, it’s not something important to me.”

“Enjolras, come _on_ ,” he practically groans. “You’re not a statue, even if you look like you’re made of marble sometimes. You’re telling me it never upset you? I’m not just talking about people not taking you seriously. And don’t start talking about overcoming skewed perceptions of beauty—no one’s that well-adjusted in high school.”

“I need to work,” Enjolras cuts him. “Could you please leave?”

They were just getting to the good stuff, as far as he’s concerned, but he knows when he’s overstayed his welcome. If he was ever welcome in the first place.

“Fine,” he sighs, getting up. Enjolras looks relieved, which is maybe what prompts him to lean towards the student two seats over and stage-whisper, “You think he’s hot, right?”

He can almost hear Enjolras’s head snap up.

The girl frowns at him, then looks at Enjolras, who is shooting daggers at Grantaire. She laughs quietly. “Um, yes?”

Grantaire flashes him a grin.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras hisses.

“Helping you,” Grantaire says. “Think of it as voluntary work. See you later.”

*

When he next sees Courfeyrac at the Musain, he sidles up to him. “So I hear Enjolras used to have long hair.”

Courfeyrac chokes on his drink. “Who told you?”

“He did.”

“You’re joking.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Pics or it didn’t happen.”

Courfeyrac studies him for a moment. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He emails Grantaire a photo later. It shows him, Combeferre and Enjolras in what seems to be—naturally—a debate competition. They all look young, but Grantaire is focused on Enjolras. He can see why they’d call him feminine, with his flowing locks framing an expression not as hard as the one he’s used to seeing. And yet his eyes are just as bright and there is an unreal, unworldly quality to him, then as now. Grantaire will never admit how long he studies the picture.

Enjolras is a fool. An idealistic, mad, overbearing fool, but god, he is beautiful. Grantaire absolutely can’t stand him.

*

“You need to get laid.”

He wasn’t exactly looking for Enjolras, but Courfeyrac happened to mention he favors a particular coffee shop on campus, and Grantaire was around, so.

Fine, maybe he was looking for Enjolras. He takes a seat.

Enjolras doesn’t bother to question his presence. “It’s not for you to tell me what I need,” he states, more controlled now than at the library. “First, do you even know my sexual orientation? Maybe I’m not even interested in sex.”

“ _Are_ you asexual?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“What? I knew the terms even before hearing you yell about them.”

“I’m not comfortable with this discussion.”

“I’m not comfortable with cat people, but we just have to deal with that shit in life. Come on, don’t tell me you were too busy to spare it a moment’s thought. How can I help you if you don’t tell me the basics?”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Enjolras sputters.

“Neither did those poor unenlightened bigots, but you insist on helping them see the light, don’t you?” He grins as Enjolras’s mouth curves in distate. Grantaire’s got him. “Am I the problem? Do you not want to tell _me_? What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Nothing. You don’t even care, you’re just doing this to annoy me.”

“Hm,” Grantaire mutters noncommittally.

“I identify as queer. There. Is your curiosity satisfied?”

He didn’t want to make assumptions, but he’s not surprised. Enjolras does run a social justice group focused on LGTB issues, though by now Grantaire knows he also feels passionate about every other injustice under the sun.

“Never,” he says. “Now, have you never been interested in anyone? And by interested, I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Enjolras cuts him short. He’s looking around at anything but Grantaire, sitting straight and holding his paper cup with more force than would be advisable. “There were a couple of times when I saw someone and thought…”

“I’d hit that?” Grantaire supplies helpfully.

Enjolras sighs irritably.

“Could you be any cruder?”

“Always. For instance, did you ever look at a guy and go, wow, I’d really like his dick—”

“Please stop,” Enjolras pleads.

He laughs. “Why didn’t you go for it?” He has no doubt that’s what happened. Everything about Enjolras screams inexperienced, and the look on his face just confirms it.

“I had other things to worry about,” Enjolras says off-handedly.

“Please,” Grantaire scoffs. “You were just scared.”

“I mean it. I don’t have time for a relationship. I have goals and I’m focused on them and—”

“Oh, my _god_. I’m not talking about a relationship, I’m talking about sex.”

“I’m not interested in having sex with a complete stranger just for the sake of it!” It comes out a little louder than Enjolras probably intended, because a waitress and a few customers stop their conversation to look at them. Enjolras blushes again. Apparently that’s a thing that happens a lot. “See what you did?” he hisses at Grantaire.

“Me?” Grantaire laughs again. It’s hard to stay serious near Enjolras, when he’s being so contrary and willingly obtuse. “You don’t need to have _completely_ meaningless sex. You can still like someone, have sex with them, and not get chained later on, I assure you. Sex is nice. Isn’t that what you defend, when you go and on about the liberation of women and education of teenagers and so forth? Or is that for the rest of the world, and you don’t have desires like us mortals?”

Enjolras sips at his coffee, then clears his throat before saying, “You say all that as if it’s simply the question of picking someone and sleeping with them.”

“For you? Maybe. Even your hippie phase wasn’t bad.”

“What,” Enjolras says.

“Courf showed me some interesting pictures.”

“I hope it was worth it,” Enjolras says calmly, “since no one will find his body.”

“Relax, you looked fine.” More than fine, but he’s not about to go down that path again. “Take it from me, you could be having a lot of sex. It’s a shame you’re not. I mean, if you stop with the activism for just a moment—”

“So I have to stop being me to get someone to like me? That’s not what I believe in.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he explains slowly. Enjolras is so _frustrating_. “First impressions are a real thing, Enjolras. If you start off aggressive, people won’t respond to you any other way.”

Enjolras lowers his eyes and starts fiddling with the lid on his paper cup. His mouth is a thin line, and Grantaire’s wondering what he did _now_ when he remembers something.

“There’s a party tonight, Courf invited me. Are you going? Actually, don’t answer that. My sources tell me you don’t do that kind of fun stuff, but I think you should go.”

“Well,” Enjolras says, “if _you_ think I should go.”

“Also don’t bother with sarcasm, it bounces right off of me. I bet I’m right, though. If you set your mind on anyone in there, you could take them home. _Or_ do a number of other things your heart desires. And by your heart I mean your—”

“ _Bye_ , Grantaire.”

“See you at the party,” he calls before he leaves.

*

He spots Courfeyrac first. It’s not hard, given he’s on a table, with his shirt off, dancing like it’s 1999.

“Grantaaaaire! Everyone, this is Grantaire. He’s the best!”

A great whoop erupts around him.

“Don’t believe him,” Jehan says on his ear, appearing beside him. “He says that to all the girls.”

“My heart is broken,” Grantaire deadpans. “Where are your other miscreant friends?”

“Upstairs. I think I saw Bossuet falling off a window.”

“Is Enjolras there too?”

Jehan smirks. “You really think he’s coming?”

“I told him to,” Grantaire says, fighting a stab of disappointment. He was so sure he’d convinced Enjolras, before. The place suddenly feels overcrowded and the party not worth it, and he feels himself sagging.

Jehan is looking at him strangely. “He’s not one to come to these things, don’t take it pers—holy shit.” Jehan is looking at a point behind him. “I can’t believe it.”

He turns around and smiles at Enjolras, who’s looking around as if he’s just entered a crime scene. His expression doesn’t soften when he sees them.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he says as he approaches.

Enjolras looks intensely uncomfortable, but the simple look he’s got works in his favor, the jeans and ridiculously tight shirt highlighting his features. Just walking inside has earned him several looks. But then again, Grantaire figures he could’ve been wearing a potato sack and cause the same effect.

“You’re here because my arguments were inescapable,” he says. Not far from them, Courfeyrac is sliding to the floor.

“Well,” Jehan says, “I’m going to deal with _that_. You guys have fun.”

Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac; Grantaire looks at him.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

Enjolras turns to him in silence, as if he’s not sure what to say, and Grantaire fidgets. He didn’t mean to sound like—whatever it is he sounded like.

“We can test my theory now!” he says cheerfully. “Go hit on someone.”

Enjolras sputters. “What—I—no.”

“Someone here must have caught your interest?” He grins when Enjolras blushes. “See? I knew it. Who is it?” He looks around. “You should go there and introduce yourself.”

“No,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire is convinced it is his standard response to anything.

“How do you expect to break through your wall of defensiveness if you don’t?”

“I never said I wanted to!”

“Then why are you here?”

Enjolras’s answer to that is a muttered, “Does this place have a bar?”

“Good enough start,” Grantaire says. “Come on.”

*

It turns out Enjolras with a couple of drinks _can_ talk about other things. Of course, he’s just as passionate about Game of Thrones than he is about social justice, but Grantaire is starting to realize that’s a character trait unlikely to disappear. They sit on a couch of questionable taste, Enjolras stiffly on one corner and Grantaire perched on the arm of that leather monstrosity, when he notices it. 

“That guy is looking at you,” he points out. After all, this whole thing is meant to get Enjolras out in the dating scene, and the guy in question is a decent-looking fellow. Not anywhere near Enjolras’s league, but Enjolras is on a league of his own, so he’ll have to make concessions. “He looks like he’s getting ready to come over. Relax and be yourself. Well. Be a mellow version of yourself.”

“He’s not going to come here,” Enjolras says with way too much certainty for someone who didn’t even look at who Grantaire is referring to.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“We’re—won’t he think we’re—” Enjolras makes a gesture between them.

Grantaire laughs. Him and Enjolras? He hasn’t shaved in _days_ and threw on the first thing he had at hand, which is probably not even clean. Not to mention his _face_. Who in their right mind would think Enjolras would be with _him_?

“Why on earth would he think that?” he scoffs. Enjolras looks away, embarrassed. “Don’t feel bad. I’ll go get another drink and you go wild.”

*

He didn’t _really_ expect Enjolras to go wild, which is why he gets a shock when he goes back and finds Enjolras making out with the guy, half sprawled on the couch.

“Good for you,” he mutters, and goes in search of a familiar face.

*

He’s on the floor playing a drunken card game with Bossuet when Enjolras plops down next to him.

“Enjolras!” Bossuet says happily, then narrows his eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” Enjolras says, quite clearly drunk. Then he leans over and whispers in Grantaire’s ear. “You’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“All the things.”

Grantaire laughs. “Can one person really be wrong about _all the things_?”

“You can.” He stabs a finger in Grantaire’s chest. “You’re so annoying.”

“I try my best. Maybe you should go home?” He might not like Enjolras, but he can’t help noticing there are a couple of guys who look like they wouldn’t mind taking a pliant and drunk blonde activist home. Grantaire is surprised at how protectiveness flares in his chest. “Where’s your handler?”

“Ferre’s my best friend, not my handler.”

“Tonight he’s your chauffeur. How did it go with what’s-his-name?” he asks under his breath, though Bossuet is pointedly not listening to them.

“I didn’t catch his name,” Enjolras says, embarrassed.

“That’s the spirit.”

“I told you, I don’t—I’m not interested in some random person.”

“You seemed pretty into it when I saw you.”

“Why were you watching me?” Enjolras asks angrily.

He doesn’t have an answer for that, so he just hopes Enjolras will forget the conversation by morning. “Where’s Combeferre?” he asks Bossuet.

“I’ll get him!” Bossuet offers, hitting his head on a lamp as he gets up. “Just a moment!”

He returns a couple of minutes of awkward silence later. (Enjolras is brooding, god knows why, and Grantaire hasn’t stopped him from messing up all the cards, like an unattended toddler.) Bossuet looks at them sheepishly.

“I don’t think we should interrupt Ferre. I mean, we can, but Éponine will kill us, probably.”

“What,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire whistles. “Way to go, Combeferre. Seems it’s up to me, then. Come on,” he gets up. “I’ll take you home.”

Enjolras frowns up at him, then grabs his hand. He wasn’t exactly offering, but Enjolras clearly needs something to hold on to, which is probably why it takes him a few moments to let go of his wrist. Grantaire doesn’t mind.

*

“It was fine,” Enjolras answers his questioning as they sit on the bus. “I just don’t see the _point_.”

“The point is enjoying yourself, seeing what you like. Is that a hickey?”

“Stop that.” Enjolras bats his hand away from his collar. “Did _you_ get with anyone?” he asks suddenly, over Grantaire’s laughter.

“Not really,” he shrugs. He doesn’t think anyone there was even drunk enough to think he was a good idea.

Enjolras hums something indistinguishable, then accuses, “You got me drunk.”

“Actually, you’re pretty capable of getting yourself drunk. You even knew what to order. I was impressed! Here I was thinking you’d never had a sip of alcohol in your life.”

“I’ve drunk before,” Enjolras says, resting his head against the windowpane.

“Yeah? Done anything fun? And by fun I mean stupid.”

“Once I fell asleep on Cosette’s dad. _Stop laughing_.”

Grantaire’s pretty sure he never will. “Oh, my god. Why were you even drinking around Cosette’s dad?”

Enjolras looks at him sullenly. “Forget I said anything.”

“What has been heard cannot be unheard.” He thinks about repressed, controlled Enjolras cuddling up to someone and smiles. “You should do drunk more often, it’s a good look on you. Here, this is us.”

It’s Enjolras’s stop, actually, but he follows and walks Enjolras up to his apartment building. Enjolras doesn’t try to stop him—he remains close, in fact, walking the unsteady walk of the unaccustomed to alcohol.

“It’s here,” Enjolras says, stopping short. 

“There you go, safely delivered. Never say I’m not a gentleman.”

Enjolras looks at the building, then back at Grantaire. His eyes are glazed and his hair is a mess, but he is still stunning.

“Right,” Grantaire clears his throat, but before he can turn around Enjolras raises a hand that ends up quickly brushing his arm.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, and stumbles inside.

He walks home and doesn’t think about it.

*

“Enjolras, you slut!” is the first thing Courfeyrac says at the next meeting. “I mean that in the best possible way, of course.”

Enjolras blushes from the neck up to roots of his hair, then gives Grantaire a scathing look.

He puts his hands up. “I didn’t say anything!”

“It was me, actually,” says Joly. “Sorry, I just had to share. And I was sort of drunk too? Sorry!”

“Let me get this straight,” Bahorel asks, “you’re telling me Enjolras…”

“Why are you still giving me that look?” Grantaire asks. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

“It’s still your fault,” Enjolras snaps.

“Wait, what do you mean?” Courfeyrac asks. “I smell a good story.”

“Can we please move on?” Enjolras pleads, but several people yell no. “Grantaire—”

“I’m on a mission to get your fearless leader to relax and live a little, that’s all.” And, because he feels slightly bad for how uncomfortable this is making Enjolras, he adds, “But details are with him, so you might as well get this meeting started.”

Bahorel corners him afterwards. “So wait, you’re trying to get Enjolras to date, is that it?”

“Pretty much.”

Bahorel looks at him like he’s out of his mind. He supposes it is a hard task, but hardly worth the look of pure bafflement on his face.

“What?”

“I—why? Are you a masochist?”

Grantaire narrows his eyes. “What the hell do you mean?”

Bahorel throws his hands up. “Are you serious? You’re serious. Christ. Jehan, come here! You gotta listen to this.”

“Why are you calling Jeh—”

Jehan listens to Bahorel and makes a whimpering noise. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, looking at Grantaire with an odd mix of amusement and sadness. “You’re really dumb.”

“Hey!” he protests, but they share another laugh and a meaningful look that means nothing to him at all.

Grantaire has no idea what got into then, and he’s not going to think about it.

*

He keeps running into Enjolras, though it’s debatable whether he can call it _running into_ when he goes to places he knows Enjolras will be at. He sees him at the library, at his favorite coffee shop, catches him as he leaves his classes. It’s just that he leaves work at the same time, and it works out, and this way he can check on Enjolras’s progress.

He thinks he’s overcome Enjolras’s resistance to his person, because Enjolras stops complaining when Grantaire just pulls a chair whenever he is and starts talking. At meeting, he is still the same, ardent and stubborn, and they continue to argue, but during the day he allows Grantaire glimpses of his other interests. He also asks Grantaire about his work, life, family, and about school. Enjolras is sneaky, and Grantaire ends up telling him the general circumstances revolving around him dropping out.

Enjolras just listens in silence and says, “You can always go back, if you want to.”

Grantaire thinks about the unfinished portrait in his apartment and sighs. “That would only be worth it if I had any talent,” he says bitterly, which earns him an impassionated ten-minute sermon on why talent is 90% dedication and how Jehan doesn’t think he’s untalented in the first place. It leaves Grantaire slightly dizzy and strangely warm. That day he thinks Enjolras might not be such an asshole, after all.   

But for all of Enjolras’s alleged self-sufficiency, Grantaire still thinks he’s in desperate need of assistance in one aspect of his life, and tells him so.

“I’ve told you a thousand times,” Enjolras says as they grab a coffee one day. “I need to like someone to want to… And that kind of thing doesn’t just _happen_.”

“You can make it happen, if you’re open to the possibility,” Grantaire says. “Want to bet I can find you someone likable?”

Enjolras just groans. 

*

Michel is attractive in a non-threatening kind of way. He’s just graduated from Medicine—so, _smart_ —he adopts strays and, from hearing him talk with Bahorel, thinks Enjolras’s brand of bullshit activism is quite a valid and worthwhile way to practice one’s civil rights. He is perfect for Enjolras.

“Don’t you think so?” he asks Bahorel during practice one day.

Bahorel releases a long-suffering sigh, just before flipping him backwards. Grantaire feels the air leave his lungs and looks up at his friend’s blank face.

“Do _you_ think so?” Bahorel asks sharply.

“Yes? And he’s pretty hot, I suppose.”

The guy Enjolras made out with at the party was not as tall or muscly, but Michel is not exactly a bodybuilder. Grantaire spies on the man, who’s fighting not far from them.

“He’s got that sexy librarian look, kind of like Combeferre. Not that I’m saying Enjolras has the hots for Combeferre. Ugh. Do you think—?”

“Please stop talking,” Bahorel says, taking a step back and leaving him to get on his feet on his own.

They invite Michel to the next meeting.

*

Michel is enchanted by the group; the group is delighted by him. Grantaire must admit he is charming, in a soft-spoken way, and very knowledgeable. Grantaire studies Enjolras throughout the meeting and catches the way his eyes spark when Michel agrees with something he says, or when the man gets into the discussion.

“See?” he whispers to Bahorel, and downs his drink.

It’s a good thing, what he’s doing. Enjolras is not a bad person, he just needs to relax and get that stick out of his ass. All he needs a little push, and Grantaire is doing that, which is the right thing to do. And he feels—happy about doing it.  

After the meeting is over, Enjolras catches his eye, but Grantaire finds he can’t really look at him, for some reason. He leaves the café when he sees Michel approach their fearless leader.

*

He doesn’t accidentally run into Enjolras the next day—instead, Enjolras runs into him. Though perhaps it doesn’t happen quite that accidentally either, since Enjolras surprises him as he’s walking home from work.

“What are you doing here?” he screeches as Enjolras materializes from a side street.

“Michel asked me out.”

He stops. “Okay.”

Enjolras crosses his arms. “What do I do?”

“There are usually two options. You accept or you don’t.” Why is Enjolras asking him? Why is Grantaire so annoyed that he does? “You liked him, didn’t you?”

“He’s a good addition to the group,” Enjolras says carefully.

“ _Enjolras_.”

“I suppose I could. Like him, I mean.”

“Good,” he says. It is the exact opposite of what he suddenly feels, which is cold and slightly sick. “This could be something good for you.”

They stand in silence.

“I guess I’ll accept it, then,” Enjolras says, and he sounds really pissed off about it, and nothing that man does makes any sense. “Goodbye, Grantaire.”

*

They’re really perfect for each other, he thinks that night, tossing and turning on his bed. They’ll go on their date and start going out and get married and adopt lots of underprivileged kids, and Enjolras will maybe remember Grantaire arranged it all, and spare him a moment of his time now and then.

Something lodges in his throat, making it hard to breathe. He sits up and blinks in the dark, amazed at the force of the nausea that comes over him, like he’s been punched in the stomach.

No, it can’t be. He doesn’t—he doesn’t think of Enjolras like that. Enjolras, with his stubborn beliefs and unshakable faith that people are better than they really are, always thinking he’s right, always wanting to convince him. Enjolras, who’ll stand in front of a police line but flushes when Grantaire points out how beautiful he is and—

Well. Fuck.

*

He and Bahorel are putting their gear away when he overhears Michel tell one of his buddies he has a date tonight.

Bahorel gives him a pitying look and he realizes—they all _know_. They all knew before him.

This can’t be happening.

*

The next day—because Grantaire believes in following bad life decisions to the bitter end—he goes to find Enjolras in the library.

“Did you have fun?” he asks unceremoniously, plopping down.

“How do you—you know what, I don’t even want to know.” Enjolras sits back and taps a pen on the table. There’s an open notebook beside him, and Grantaire sees several crossed out lines. “It was fine.”

“Tell me more, tell me more,” he sings. “Did you get very far?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “He’s a gentleman.”

“So no.” He hates himself for how that makes me feel.

“We had dinner. We talked. He’s very smart and well-travelled.” Enjolras lists off qualities as if reciting a grocery list. “We spend an entire night without arguing about a single thing,” he adds quietly, and Grantaire swallows hard.

“Oh.” There’s a silent moment which he breaks with a strained laugh. “See? I knew you’d get along.”

Enjolras breathes out, looking pissed again, and he leaves.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth that doesn’t disappear until he washes it down with some wine later.

*

A week later he asks, “How many dates have you had?”

“Tonight is the third,” Enjolras answers stiffly. He’s looking out the window of what Grantaire has come to think of as _their_ coffee shop, and Grantaire drinks in the way the sun caresses his profile.

“Maybe you should make a move. He might be trying to respect your space or something. You want to, right?”

If there are people with self-preservation instincts, those people are not Grantaire. He doesn’t know what’s worse—the lack of reply or the way Enjolras looks embarrassed, which is all the reply he needs.

“It’s not that deep, Enjolras. If you’d like to, just go and kiss him. Assuming he gives you permission, of course. Please don’t start lecturing me on consent.”

“Right,” Enjolras scoffs. “So I just go right up to someone and ask them if I can kiss them?” It’s half mocking, half genuine, and Grantaire wants to die.

“Pretty much.”

“And if they recoil in horror?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Then you’ll know how the other half lives. But I assure you he won’t.” Who the hell _would_? Certainly not Michel, who looks at Enjolras like he wants to devour him. Grantaire can’t blame the man, even if he wants to strangle him and dispose of the body in creative ways.

“Maybe I will,” Enjolras says finally.

*

It’s eleven-thirty when there’s a knock at the door. He almost ignores it, thinking he imagined it, but there it is again. Grantaire pulls himself from under the covers. He fell asleep and there’s a wine stain on his sheets from the bottle he’s been clutching like the pathetic wretch he is. He puts it on the floor and pads to the door, mouth falling ajar when he opens it to find Enjolras there.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, because something must be wrong. He had a date tonight—he’s still dressed for it, with a tight leather jacket that Grantaire knows belongs to Jehan. What if something happened and Enjolras is freaked out and it’s his fault for starting all this? Or worse, what if something happened and he _liked_ it and he wants to _talk_ about it?

“I told Michel it wasn’t working,” Enjolras says.

“I’m really sleepy right now and I just had half a bottle of wine, so you’ll need to be absolutely clear, Enjolras. Small words.”

“Michel and I. We’re done,” Enjolras clarifies, his words halted, like he’s trying to say something that he never has before and doesn’t quite know how to form them. “He said. He said he _figured_ ,” Enjolras adds, his mouth twisting in a bitter curve, his eyes downcast.

“What do you mean?” Grantaire is awake now, something desperate bubbling in his chest. “I thought you liked him,” he says weakly.

“I tried. He’s nice, so I thought—I should like him, right? That’d make sense. But I couldn’t. I didn’t even come close,” he says, sounding really upset and running a hand through his hair. “God, I hope—you said I should, so I’m taking your advice, okay? Please don’t laugh at me.”

“What are you _saying_ —” Grantaire asks, but the last word dies in his throat as Enjolras’s hands frame his face.

His touch is soft, his eyes unsure, and his voice barely a whisper.

“Can I?”

It takes him a few seconds to understand it, and he looks at Enjolras, uncomprehending, even as he’s desperate to believe. This can’t be really happening. He’s a cynic and he drinks too much and sometimes he can’t even get out of _bed_ , yet here is Enjolras, looking at him like his answer is the most important thing in the world.

“Are you serious? You realize this is _me_ , right?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says sweetly. He smiles at Grantaire, setting his heart ablaze. “I do.”

“But. How?” He can’t even breathe. “ _How long_?”

“Since the first time you came to a meeting,” Enjolras admits. “I know, pathetic, but I won’t apologize for how I feel,” he adds, characteristically proud and stubborn, before adding quickly, “Just please let me know where you stand on this, cause everyone told me you feel the same but you look really horrified right now and I might have to run home and hide for a few years to live this down—aah—”

Grantaire grabs him by the waist and crashes their mouths together, burying his fingers in that goddamn hair. It feels as good as he imagined, as does Enjolras flush against him.

“Hmmm,” Enjolras hums contently a while later. “You know, I think I see the point, now.”

And Grantaire might be a hopeless case, but everything looks beautiful right now and he can’t bring himself to care. And maybe, he thinks, as he leads Enjolras inside—maybe it will even turn out okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> Um, I'm not sure where this came from? Hope it was mildly entertaining. 
> 
> My thanks to [Trick](http://trickztr.tumblr.com) for the title, which is a [song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ckv6-yhnIY>song</a>%20by%20Nina%20Simone.%20Come%20say%20hi%20on%20<a%20href=) by Nina Simone. Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://sonhoedesrazao.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> (ETA: I completely fucked up the html, so my previous note made no sense? haha sorry)


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